


Hell of a First Date

by guilty_pleasures_abound



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Come Marking, Crimes & Criminals, Cunnilingus, F/M, First Dates, Kitchen Sex, Oral Sex, POV Female Character, POV Second Person, Rough Sex, Swooning Over Stans: A Grunkle Dating Simulator, Unsafe Sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-02 10:34:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19197067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guilty_pleasures_abound/pseuds/guilty_pleasures_abound
Summary: After their crime spree in "Swooning Over Stans", the Reader and Stan find themselves riding the exhilaration of their arrest and subsequent escape from jail with a quick, dirty fuck on the kitchen table.[Female reader]





	Hell of a First Date

**Author's Note:**

> Back to my roots; writing sexy alternatives to the PG scenes in "Swooning Over Stans." Everything in bold is directly from the game, everything else is me.

**Slipping out with only a _click_ of the station door closing behind you, you and Stan climb into his car and escape into the night. After stopping by Bud’s dealership to pick up the hidden backpack, you and your partner in crime head back to the Shack in comfortable silence. You’d feel tired if it weren’t for the adrenaline.**

**You carry the backpack inside while Stan brings in the Klouneng and the briefcase, setting both on the kitchen table.**

**“I’d call that a successful night.”**

**“Even though we got arrested, so would I. And fun, too.”**

**You grin over at him and realize, in the bright kitchen light, that he’s still got blood on his face. How do you keep forgetting? You’re the one who elbowed him, after all.**

**“You’ve got... well, come here.”**

**You pull one of the chairs out from under the table, gesturing for him to sit down. He looks a little wary, but obeys, the chair’s ancient metal frame creaking under his weight. You grab a couple paper towels, turning on the faucet in the sink and wetting them.**

**Mentally steadying yourself, you hold the side of his face and neck in your hand. With gentle pressure, you guide his head to tilt back until he’s lit up fully by the overhead light. You can feel him blush under your hand, his skin heating up, and he seems too surprised to protest or even speak as you wipe the now-dried blood from his face. He’s quiet while you work, watching you with warm, brown eyes rimmed by dark lashes.**

**“I... I coulda taken care of this myself, ya’know.”**

**He says this, but he hasn’t pulled away or made any move to leave.**

**“I did the damage. The least I could do is clean up after myself. Anyway, you’ve done plenty as it is.”**

**The paper towels you have become too soiled to work with, so you toss them into the trash and go back to get a few more. Your hand returns to his cheek, and... you could be imagining things, but it almost feels like he leans into it.**

**“I really did have a good time with you tonight. I had no idea crime could be so fun.”**

**He smirks, avoiding your gaze.**

**“I, uh... I had a good time, too.”**

**You pause for a moment, realizing something.**

**“Those cops aren’t gonna come after us, are they?”**

**Stan shrugs. “Probably not. They’re nice enough guys, but not exactly comptent.”**

**You laugh quietly and he smirks up at you. You stand back to make sure you’re finished, and toss the last paper towels into the trash.**

**“You’re sure it’s not broken?”**

**“Nah, I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”**

**Your hand lingers on his cheek.** You can let him go now, you know that, but somehow you can’t motivate yourself to do it. He doesn’t seem to be in a rush either, and you swear you can feel him lean into your palm even more.

**“Thanks. For the car parts. And for the good time.”**

“Don’t mention it.” His voice is a murmur, and still neither one of you moves.

The house is so quiet you can hear the buzz of the light overhead and a clock ticking somewhere. You can hear Stan’s shallow breathing, and you feel a muscle in his jaw tick as he clenches it for a moment, then swallows before sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. Your eyes flick down to the motion, and he does it again; a little slower, a little more purposeful.

It’s your turn to swallow audibly, looking back up into his eyes as you find yourself leaning closer.

“Stan...”

He meets you halfway with a little surge upward, your gasp muted against his mouth. It’s a bit clumsy, a bit overeager, but that doesn’t stop you from melting right into it with a soft moan.

The scrape of the chair legs against the floor startles you a little as he stands up, his hands abruptly landing on your hips, and the next thing you know you’re being pushed back against the table. Suddenly it’s the same exhilaration you felt when you were being chased tonight; the same edge-of-your-seat thrill, making your heart race and your breath shudder.

Maybe it’s the leftover adrenaline talking, you’re not really sure, but all you want in that moment is more; more of Stan’s hands on you, more of his mouth, more of the soft groans he's humming against your lips.

You hitch yourself up onto the table, using his broad shoulders to steady you, and it's far too easy to pull him between your spread knees, hooking your heels against the backs of his calves.

He seems to take the hint, his mouth sliding down from your lips to your throat, boldly kissing and lightly sucking, with an edge of teeth that just might leave marks; strangely, you can’t find it in you to mind. Especially with the rough feel of his stubble as a sensation all on its own—an electric little scratch against your skin that seems oddly hardwired to send tingles through your whole body.

You have no idea where your sudden stroke of bravery comes from, but you run with it; pushing his jacket down his shoulders first, the heavy fabric falling to the floor with a slight thunk. Then your hands move to his sides, grabbing fistfuls of his dark shirt, pulling it up and free from the waist of his trousers. He shudders when your hands push under the fabric, meeting bare skin and greedily petting over it.

He’s so warm, wonderfully so, and the slightly coarse hair covering his skin is such a contrast to your own body that you smile, happily enjoying the texture under your palms. You get the sense that it’s been a long time since he’s been touched like this; the strength with which he’s gripping your waist, the fine tremors shivering through his muscles, the unsteadiness of his breath.

He seems to suddenly remember that he has working hands too, releasing your waist to get his fingers under your shirt, emboldened by your touch and eager to reciprocate. And God it’s so good; his palms wide and just a bit rough, warm as the rest of him and sliding over you with an edge of franticness that echoes in your own body.

The next thing you know you’re both ditching the shirts, yanked over your head and tossed unceremoniously to the floor, letting skin meet skin and making you moan.

“Shit you’re so pretty,” Stan pants, cupping your breasts over the fabric of your bra and looking at your chest with a sort of dazed reverence. “Fuck, I wanna put these in my mouth.”

A blush rapidly takes over your face, his brazenness startling you, but so, _so_ welcome.

“God, please,” you moan softly, panting as you slide your hands behind your back, unclasping your bra and letting it fall to the floor to join your shirt.

Stan looks like you just offered him a million bucks on a gold platter, his lips slightly parted, his pupils dilated, his calloused palms cupping and petting with a little squeeze that makes you shiver. He glances up at you before ducking his head, and your hands find his hair as he places a frantic trail of kisses and gentle bites across your chest.

You don’t even realize you’re leaning backward until your spine hits the edge of Stan’s briefcase, the hard edge against your skin making you jump. Stan doesn’t seem to notice until you try to reach behind you for it, nearly knocking it to the floor in the process.

He doesn’t even look up; his hand going behind your back and finding the handle, lowering it to the floor as you lean the rest of the way back until you meet the coolness of the table, Stan following you down with his tongue laving wetly at your nipple and soft, longing moans vibrating in his throat. You’re pretty sure you’re using the Klouneng as a pillow, but if Stan doesn’t care you certainly don’t.

God, he’s properly wedged between your legs now, hard through his trousers and mindlessly rubbing against you, too lost in touching and kissing your chest to notice. It makes you feel lightheaded; his attention, his obvious arousal, the exhilaration of everything you’ve done tonight, the exhilaration of what you’re doing now.

It’s not enough, it’s not nearly enough; your clit throbbing and desperate for touch, your cunt making your underwear wet, your tits feeling increasingly sensitive under his mouth. You whine, squirming and hitching your knees higher, crossing your ankles as your thighs squeeze his hips.

“God, honey—”

“Anything,” you interrupt him, shocked at how much you mean it. “Anything you want, fuck, just—”

He doesn’t have to be told twice, his thick fingers suddenly at the button on your pants, clumsy but determined, pulling a litany of _yes_ from your lips.

The buckle on his belt jingles and clicks when you get your hands on it, freeing the leather in a rough little tug that makes him grunt, his own touch fumbling and his head rising from your chest. You take it as an opportunity to kiss him—with tongue and teeth and a soft whine, distracting him from your pants even more, but damn if it’s not worth it when you tug down the zipper on his trousers and slide your hand inside.

“Oh my god,” he moans against your mouth, hot and throbbing in your grasp and leaking eager precome from the tip. You use it to make the slide of your hand down his shaft a little easier, feeling powerful when his hips jerk into the touch.

With sudden renewed vigor he finishes tugging your zipper down, hooking his hands into the waist of your pants, catching your underwear too and tugging it all down. You unhook your ankles from behind his back only long enough for him to wrangle one pant leg over your shoe, letting the rest hang off your other ankle as you pull him back in.

It’s the kind of risky decision that you normally wouldn’t make, but considering the crime spree that had kicked off the evening it seems appropriate; not a single objection coming past your lips when he positions himself against your entrance and pushes inside.

 _“Fuck,”_ you gasp at the sudden stretch, Stan feeling so much thicker inside you than he had in your hand, his ragged breath against your neck hot and goosebump-inducing. Just as ragged is his rhythm; quick, jolting thrusts that steal your breath, your hands finding his shoulders and squeezing tight.

“Oh god,” he moans again, the strength with which he’s gripping your hips sure to leave bruises, his mouth messy and frantic against your throat. “Shit, you feel incredible, goddamn.”

The feeling is mutual, your body spasming and squeezing with his every thrust, almost embarrassed by how good it feels to have him inside you; how much this is ramping you up, even without direct stimulation to your clit.

Fuck, you can hear the table under you squeaking; protesting your completely inappropriate use of it, and it occurs to you that despite the late hour, you are still technically in a house full of people—any of whom could hear the noise the two of you are making and come investigate. You take small comfort in the fact that the twins are the least likely; with their room all the way on the third floor, there’s not a high chance of the sound reaching them. Still, you make an effort to stifle any noise, biting your lip and holding him tight. He seems to be doing the same, his sounds of pleasure muffled against your neck, pressed there just as adamantly as the messy kisses and edge of his teeth.

“Fuck,” you still can't help the soft gasp from falling from your lips again when he grinds in, the hard bone of his pelvis at just the right angle to rub against your clit. It makes him shudder, doing it again and again, just to keep pulling the gasps from your throat and spasms from your cunt.

You don’t know what to do with your hands; just holding onto his shoulders doesn’t feel like enough, restless energy building inside you right next to lustful heat. So you dig your fingers into his hair, holding tight to the thick gray strands as your other hand slides down his back; digging your nails in just enough to make him gasp, his tenuous rhythm faltering all the more when you reach his ass. You’re completely unable to resist the urge to dig your fingers into the meat of his cheek, pulling him in that little bit harder inside you, squeezing the flexing muscle under your palm.

“Shiiiiit,” he groans, his thrusts taking on a sudden edge of urgency, of franticness, before he suddenly pulls out with a hard grunt, his release spilling all over your bare stomach. “Shit shit shit!”

You can’t hide your disappointed whine, giving a frustrated tug to his hair, another hot pulse of his come landing on your belly in a messy spurt.

“Shit,” he whispers again, lifting his head to press a hard kiss to your mouth, one of his hands leaving your hips to cup your cheek. “Sorry, sorry. It’s been a damn while, shit. Hold on, alright? Hold on.”

He straightens, grimacing when his back cracks and looking behind him until he finds the chair, pulling it closer and sitting down.

The next thing you know, both your knees are over his shoulders, and his hot tongue is pressing between your legs.

“Oh my god." The words leave your lips in a rasp, one of your hands hurriedly clamping over your mouth, the other reaching up over your head for the edge of the table. At least it’s not squeaking under you now, your sole weight on its surface apparently not enough for it to protest.

You immediately stop thinking about the table when Stan starts a rapid, rough rub of his tongue against your clit, broad thumbs on either side of your labia making sure you’re as open and exposed to the onslaught as possible. He’s fucking good; way better than you would have guessed, and way more eager than you expected. He’s licking you like this is the best part; that getting his dick inside you was just the warm up to this.

You don’t even care that his spunk is cooling on your belly, all you can feel is the rough stubble on his jaw tickling your inner lips, the determined flick of his tongue, his uneven breath against your pubic bone. Then he moves one hand down to your entrance, two thick fingers pressing inside with a wet sound before they curl against the front wall of your pussy with a hard, rocking motion, riding the squirm and tension of your body until you come; back arching off the table, toes curled, every muscle tense as you desperately keep your hand over your mouth to muffle the moans you can’t stop making.

He doesn’t let up one bit until you push him away, prying your fingers off the edge of the table by sheer force of will to take a handful of his hair into your hand, tilting him back and away from your oversensitive flesh. He opts for the inside of your thigh instead, mouth and chin leaving a wet trail behind as he kisses and nips at the trembling muscle, fingers still buried inside you but thankfully still.

Your legs slide off his shoulders and your hand shifts from his head down his arm as he stands up a few minutes later, withdrawing his digits from between your legs only to pop them in his mouth, sucking for a moment as he looks down at you with heavy-lidded eyes. It makes you realize you still have your other hand over your mouth, so you slowly let go, letting your arm hang off to the side of the table.

It’s Stan’s turn to get paper towels, hiking his pants back up and tucking himself in first, leaving the belt hanging loose as he makes his way to the sink to dampen them. Then he wordlessly cleans you up, wiping away the evidence of his climax and throwing them in the trash to join his bloodied ones.

You feel a bit useless still lying on the table as Stan proceeds to pick up both your shirts from the floor, but you just can’t quite motivate yourself to move yet; you still feel too good, you just want to savor it a few minutes more. He drapes all the clothes he’s collected over the back of the chair, then steps back between your legs.

“Y’alright?” Stan leans over you, hands flat against the table on either side of your torso, a perfect invitation for you to stroke your hands up his arms.

“Wonderful,” you murmur, taking a deep breath in, then letting it out. “You?”

“Fantastic.” He looks practically blissful, his eyes shifting down your body. “You gonna stay there all night, or you wanna come to bed with me?”

You had been trying not to hope too hard that he would invite you to sleep with him, so actually hearing the offer made you smile despite yourself. “I would love that.”

“Yeah?” He looks back up at your face, mirroring your smile with one of his own.

“Yeah.”

“Come on, then, toots,” he leans back, offering you both his hands so you can pull yourself back into a sitting position. “Here.”

He picks up his shirt instead of yours, offering it to you with a sweet smile. “So you don’t have to get completely redressed.”

You smile even wider as you take it from him, pulling it over your head as he kneels to work your pants over your ankle, taking your shoe with it before removing the other one as well.

You end up taking the small pile of your clothes while Stan grabs the briefcase and the Klouneng, all the evidence of how you both spent the evening completely cleared from the table. His long arms can easily tuck the painting and the briefcase against one side while he hooks his arm around you with the other, leading you upstairs toward the previously mysterious door marked as his.

“It’s, er… probably a bit messy. Sorry about that.”

“Messy as in biohazard, or messy as in disorganized?”

“Disorganized,” he says with a soft laugh, the both of you keeping your voices down as you hit the second floor landing. “I don’t exactly entertain female company that much.”

“Sexy silver fox like you? Please, I don’t believe it for a second.”

He smiles brilliantly, squeezing you a little tighter against his side with a muffled laugh. “You’d think, wouldn’t you? Most gals just don’t know a stud when they find one these days I guess.”

You press your laugh into his shoulder as you reach his door, the both of you shuffling in. And it’s true, it is a bit of a mess, but it’s not the kind of mess that leaves you fearing you’ll get tetanus or wake up to a rat sniffing your face.

“Well… that was a hell of a first date,” you murmur to him once he’s stripped back down to his boxers and pulling you flush against him on the well-worn mattress.

He chortles, brushing a kiss against your forehead as his hand pets down your back.

“You can say that again. Can’t promise the next one will be quite as exciting.”

You tuck your smile against the base of his throat, glad that he seems to want a “next one” the way you do.

“I can live with that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Visit my grunkle shrine on [tumblr](https://guilty-pleasures-abound.tumblr.com)


End file.
